


mail order

by orphan_account



Series: express shipping [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-05 03:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13379451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: yifan is an artist who paints the agony of his angelic boyfriend's abusive past, and tries to rebuild him through recovery.





	1. sea foam

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from my aff account. this is the sequel to tinny penny, but it can stand alone.

When Yifan met Huang Zitao, he was twenty-four, living in a tiny box of an apartment, and a week overdue with rent, holding not even a dime to his name. 

 

Zitao,  at the time a tall, dark haired boy who looked worse for the wear—sporting a fresh,  _ ugly _ black eye— had stumbled into the liquor shop that Yifan worked at on a Wednesday, at three in the morning, and had timidly asked for a 375 milliliter bottle of Hennessy, and flashed Yifan a fake identification card. 

 

It wasn’t a  _ bad _ fake by any stretch of the word—but Yifan had possessed and  _ made _ his fair share of fake identifications (why, how else was he going to pay off the loan he had taken out only to receive a useless Bachelor's of Fine Arts in Illustration?), and it had taken him hardly a glance at the card and back at the boy to know that he was underage. 

 

_ “Right. How old are you really—” A glance at the card. The name read Edison Huang, but Yifan knew it was an alias. “Edison?”  _

 

_ If the boy wasn’t going to tell the truth, his eyes certainly would for him—for they grew large and wide. Well, at least  _ **_one_ ** _ of them did—for the other was bruised and swollen nearly shut.  _

 

_ The kid had looked so panicked—so incredibly afraid—and Yifan had felt something stir within him, though at the time he didn’t have the thought to actually do anything about the uneasiness that had begun to swell in his stomach.  _

 

_ “Can’t you just give it to me?” asked the boy, and he began to wring his hands together.  _

 

_ “You’re underage, and Hennessy is heavy stuff. Sorry, kid.” Yifan had half-heartedly apologized, and turned his attention back to a sketchpad that only boasted shapeless, faceless doodles drawn by his hand.  _

 

_ “I  _ **_know_ ** _ —I just,” The boy seemed so insistent on defending himself—so insistent on getting his hands on the liquor. “I can’t sleep,” He said, looking defeated. At this, Yifan had turned his gaze back up at the kid, brows lifted.  _

 

_ Hennessy could knock out a three-hundred pound man with two shots—but Yifan couldn’t imagine this boy being so disturbed that he would need 375 milliliters of the stuff to sleep. _

 

_ “Try Nyquil. You’re old enough to buy that.” Yifan had offered.  _

 

_ The boy shook his head. “Not strong enough, too addictive. It doesn’t make me sleep deep enough.”  _

 

_ “Are you trying to tranquilize yourself?”  _

 

_ This, funnily enough, had stirred a laugh from the kid, though it had been somewhat broken and dejected. “No. I just don’t want to have nightmares.”  _

 

_ By now, he had certainly grabbed Yifan’s attention, and Yifan pushed his sketchbook to the side—though his eyes still traced the way the busted blood vessels surrounding the boy’s eye were of a rich purple color—nearly black—the high of his cheekbone dusted a dark, though hardly-there, blue.  _

 

_ He wondered if he could emulate those colors on a canvas with paint.  _

 

_ “Nightmares?”  _

 

_ The boy nodded. “I left my boyfriend last week. I took a bottle of Hennessy from his shelf. It helps me sleep, but I finished it last night. Can you please just… give it to me?” _

 

_ The bubble of feelings in Yifan’s stomach was turning into a rock, and he looked at the bruise surrounding the boy’s eye no longer with the eye of a curious artist—no longer with a morbid infatuation regarding the coloring—but instead with a sickness that burned his tongue and made it difficult for him to swallow.  _

 

**_I left my boyfriend last week._ **

 

_ If only Yifan had known then how those words would stick to him through the nights—stick to him for years to come.  _

 

Yifan was twenty-four and living in a tiny box of an apartment when Huang Zitao stumbled into his life, and a month later, when Yifan was twenty-four and on the verge of being homeless, a collector had stumbled upon a painting with such an intense swirl of blues, purples, and reds that faded to brown—all ending up a grotesque black, dripping down the canvas—and paid  _ twenty-five thousand dollars _ for it. 

 

Twenty-five thousand dollars for a nameless painting done by a faceless artist who called himself  _ kris _ .

  
  


Yifan is no longer twenty-four, nor is he still living in a tiny box of an apartment. 

 

Yifan is twenty-five, living in a wide open loft full of windows and bloodied canvases, high above the city, and making a living off of his art, or rather the art of  _ kris _ —art that he absolutely  _ hates _ , but paints anyway. He’s made a name for himself—a career as  _ kris _ , a mysterious man who paints the horrific truth of the disgusting world. 

 

And  _ Edison Huang _ is no longer Edison Huang, but instead Huang Zitao, a nearly twenty year old community college student who no longer bears a black eye or a tendency to depend on alcohol to put him to sleep—instead clings to Yifan during the nights when the physical pain comes back as a phantom, and hides away, hidden above the city in Yifan’s apartment. 

 

Zitao is Yifan’s muse. 

 

Yifan has never been particularly spiritual, even less so after meeting Huang Zitao—but if there were any embodiment of an angel to cross Yifan’s mind—if he were to ever have to paint a picture of an Angelic Being; a soul almost too gentle and pure for the ugliness of the world, without any hesitation, he would begin to fan out the silhouette of Zitao. 

 

But Yifan, no matter how skilled or talented others may hail him to be, cannot translate Zitao’s ethereal beauty onto paper or canvas with merit, so instead, he paints rivers—rivers shaped by stories from Zitao that he cannot stomach to hear again. 

  
  
  


Rivers run in _ kris _ ’ paintings.

 

And sometimes they’re three-dimensional, banks made of blood, trees lined with silver that’s riddled unseen by the dark water and caking of paint upon the surface of the canvas, which pops out at the observer and makes them yield for the art, take a step back because everything is  _ coming _ toward them—and even if they decide to turn their cheek and look at another one of  _ kris’ _ canvases, they’re completely and totally trapped—forced to look upon another hellish scene—a picture that’s been painted with broken glass and torn—a gaping hole right down the middle, only to reveal a twisted, wrecked sheet of gold-leaf that’s been blurred by reds that have long since faded to browns.

 

There’s nowhere to  _ run _ in kris’ galleries, nowhere to hide, nowhere to go to see something  _ brighter _ , unless one looks deeper into the pictures to find the slivers of silver and glimmers of gold, burrowed deep within the landscaping.

 

_ kris’ _ galleries are ugly.

 

They’re absolutely horrific, and do little to better his reputation of painting all of the horrors in the galaxy, but  _ kris _ doesn’t mind. People can stare, and if it’s too much, they can turn away and leave—or if it’s not enough, they can purchase one of  _ kris _ ’ famed paintings and hang it in their home as a conversation piece, and when they tire of it, they can cover it and shove it away in an attic, or resell it, because the shock factor of kris' paintings never really fades, even if the blood does.

 

_ kris _ doesn't care what people do with his work, regardless.  Onlookers have the luxury of looking away, because it’s not  _ their  _ canvas which rivers run and hide, not  _ their _ centerpiece which bears a great, gaping hole.

  
  
  


Rivers run in _ Huang Zitao’s _ skin.  They’re three-dimensional. From the kiss of a flame on his back, to the jagged curl of a knife upon his wrists.

 

Through nearly a year of knowing Zitao, and seven months of having the privilege of calling Zitao his  _ boyfriend _ ,  _ Yifan _ has heard the stories only once, though he’s painted the pictures countless times, dragging the pads of his fingers along the divots and creases left behind by Zitao’s past—the scars that will never fade the way the blood in Yifan’s paintings does.

 

_ Yifan _ drinks from the rivers in Zitao’s skin—presses his lips so gently along the puckered shrink of a burn that has signed his angel’s wings, until Zitao is squirming beneath him and through a tearful smile pleads,  _ Yifan, stop _ .

 

He always does—any time Zitao says  _ no, don’t, stop _ —even if he’s smiling while he says it, because Yifan knows that there was a time not too far into Zitao's past, when pleas didn’t work, when sobs and tears didn’t stop the rivers from forming along Zitao’s cheeks and engraining in his skin.

 

Yifan breathes across the broken wings of his angel's back, tonight.

 

Zitao had fallen into his arms earlier, and through weepy eyes and a voice muffled by lips against Yifan's neck, murmured  _ it was a bad day. _

 

Yifan knew what that meant. The demons were creeping along Zitao's ankles, reaching up his legs and trying to bleed the rivers in Zitao's skin  _ deeper _ , and sweet, precious Zitao couldn't fight them off alone. Yifan—who had at once been engrossed in a sketchbook with a worn-down shading lead, fingers stained with charcoal—had instantly set the work aside in favor of holding his sweet Zitao.

 

And what had been Yifan holding Zitao on the couch has since turned into something more intimate beneath the hushed lighting and cotton sheets of their bed. Zitao whines against Yifan's touch as the artist undresses him, so gently and sweetly that Zitao, who has no reason and every reason to cry, can only smother his tears in a pillow and hope that Yifan doesn't think too sourly of him for an emotional outburst.

 

But Yifan could never, would never, and has never thought cruelly of Zitao, has never grown cross or ornery with his kindred Angel—an angel who's feelings bleed into Yifan's own. Yifan pulls Zitao from the pillow with fingers that are so soft that their intentions couldn't possibly be misguided or misinterpreted, and brings Zitao's quivering lips to his own.

 

Yifan has never considered himself to be a saint. In fact, everything he has ever done seems to point him in the opposite direction of Salvation, and yet he can still touch, kiss, and love an Angel as if he and Zitao had been born under the same glowing white sun and blessed by the same Vengeful God.

 

Zitao whines against Yifan's lips, the sound spun from the back of his throat, and that alone is enough to alarm Yifan—enough to make him draw away and cup Zitao's wet cheeks in both of his lead-stained hands, and peer into dark, wet eyes.

 

"Don't cry, Taozi," Yifan murmurs, his thumbs rubbing soft, straight paths along the highs of Zitao's cheeks. He knows not what has brought his angel to tears, knows not what is hurting Zitao tonight, whether it's the resonating pain of wounds that have healed but not smoothed, or bad memories that are unfortunately not as fleeting as the good ones, and frankly, Yifan isn't quite sure he wants to know any more than Zitao wishes to talk.

 

Something chokes Zitao, his breath coming shorter and in hiccups, and Yifan knows what’s coming—the tears that will grow into sobs so loud that the downstairs neighbors come knocking on the door, only to be turned away by an artist with bloodied hands and a weeping, broken angel beneath his arm.

 

Yifan tugs Zitao into his embrace, Zitao’s head falling just short of Yifan’s chin, his sweet Angel holding tight to the fabric of Yifan’s shirt, fingers coaxing the cotton into creasing, but Yifan doesn’t care—he only lets Zitao weep and swallows down the lump in his throat that threatens to climb up his tongue and spill down his cheeks.

 

Rivers run down Huang Zitao’s cheeks, and demons creep along his shadow, but he is concealed by a curtain of silk that masks itself as flame, and the smoke chokes his words and leaves them, strangled in his throat.

 

The exact cause of Zitao's melancholy demeanor is unbeknownst, hidden even to himself, for it has been nearly a year since somebody has laid a hand upon his skin with ill intent, nearly a year since he's bled as a result of a wrongdoing that wasn't a wrongdoing at all. For nearly a year, he's been with his angel, Yifan. Yifan who has given Zitao everything he had ever desired and dreamt of while laying on tattered bedsheets and concealing sobs with such an effort that it made him fall ill.

 

He’s normally so happy with Yifan—always smiles and the sparkling eyes of pleasure—but Zitao’s heart, though alight and glowing with naïve hope and belief in the world and all of its people, has its dark spots—and he doesn’t think that they’ll ever be eradicated—the decay in his heart. Not by Yifan’s unconditional adoration; not by Zitao’s own mental strength.

 

So he cries.

 

He clings to Yifan and  _ weeps _ —weeps because days, weeks, and months pass, and he tells himself that he’s gotten  _ better, _ but he’s still hurting, still treading a troubled track and running from demons that refuse to shake his path, even in the flames of his silken protector.

 

Yifan has to swallow the sorrow in his own throat as he presses his angel as close as he can, fingers dancing along Zitao’s bare back, his shirt earlier discarded as Yifan had undressed him. Yifan’s fingers catch along the rivers of Zitao’s spine—the scars that mar beautiful wings, and he can’t help but find himself growing angry.

 

Of course, this anger is not harbored toward his precious Zitao—could  _ never _ be—and just to remind himself that it’s  _ not _ Zitao, Yifan whispers, “ _ It’s okay, baby boy _ ,” and presses gentle lips to the shell of Zitao’s ear.

 

Yifan is angry at he who has hurt Zitao like this—angry at the man who dared to clip an angel's wings and bleed such a serene soul into black. His anger mixes with pain in his artwork, though the expression of the memories on canvas or paper doesn't release either of them from the reality of the memories themselves. If Yifan could, he would draw Zitao's scars onto his own skin, trace the memories that resurface in Zitao's mind onto his own stone of life, and without hesitation.

 

Zitao lets loose a sob, and Yifan can feel one of his canvases tear with the sound, and wholly and completely embraces Zitao until his arms are encircling his angel and holding tight with the strength of a thousand suns. Zitao doesn’t really have to speak. Yifan understands him wordlessly—the artist in him understanding what cannot be expressed verbally.

 

Zitao cries an unspoken sorrow high into the evening, until the bedroom is sheathed in darkness and illuminated by city lights, until Yifan cannot take it any longer—until Yifan is murmuring  _ it’s okay, baby _ like a mantra against Zitao’s skin and hoping that their hearts will cease to break. 

 

If Zitao’s heart has not stopped breaking, at least his tears have, as Yifan realizes after an immeasurable amount of time passes, that tears no longer soak his shirt, and his sweet love no longer trembles in his arms. 

 

Zitao has cried himself to exhaustion, and fallen prey to sleep in Yifan’s arms. 

 

Yifan does not disentangle himself from Zitao, because he knows that Zitao’s slumber will be fitful and riddled with nightmares that aren’t nightmares at all, but memories from a fluctuating conscious, and he wants nothing more than to be at his angel’s side when the past becomes too much and he startles awake. 

 

“ _ My Angel _ ,” Yifan mumbles, the wispy tops of Zitao’s dyed hair fluttering with his breath. There’s  _ so much _ that he might catch himself saying—so much that he cannot articulate without the aid of a paintbrush and crimson platelets.

 

_ My Angel, what has made you cry? My Angel, what has hurt you so? _

 

_ My Angel—my Sweet Angel—what kind of person would destroy you?   _

  
  
  
Two months later, a painting titled  _ i left my boyfriend last week _ by  _ kris _ , quietly sells for seventy-five thousand dollars. 


	2. curtain stripes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the cold around his ears when he resurfaces from a pool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to update on january 22 so i'll double update today (jan 29) so sorry guys

 

Yifan wonders if he has been blessed or sheltered, because he has never met a victim of abuse before Huang Zitao.

 

This is most certainly not to imply that Yifan has been ignorant of abuse throughout the duration of his life. He, just like any other person, has seen the posters advocating against silence, seen the advertisements that leave gore, but no real urge for  _ change, _ burned into his eyelids. He’s never dismissed it—always known that there were some people who had violent tendencies, and some people who were soft enough to be manipulated into thinking that tolerance of abuse was the same thing as loyalty. 

 

That was his first mistake.

 

Yifan had always thought that abuse was the fault of both parties, though significantly less on that of the person being abused. The one who did the hitting, verbal bashing, and psychological torment was, of course, unforgivably and indisputably accountable for their actions, but—because Yifan had never known or been a victim of abuse—he has always thought it to be  _ sad _ , or rather,  _ unfathomable _ that another person would allow themselves to be treated as an outlet for vexation. 

 

When Yifan meets Zitao, he realizes how completely and utterly  _ wrong _ he is—realizes that fault doesn’t swing like a pendulum towards both the abuser and the abused—realizes that there’s so much  _ more _ to what had only once been a fictional concept in Yifan’s mind. 

 

Zitao is the exact opposite of what Yifan thinks of when he pictures an  _ abuse victim _ . 

 

Zitao shatters Yifan’s misconceptions of abuse—shatters the horribly wrong picture that Yifan had been shown his entire life. Abuse victims were  _ never _ at fault for the heavy hand of their abuser, and victims most certainly weren’t limited to women and children and those that  _ looked _ weak.

 

Yifan knows not how many stories Zitao has yet to tell, how many memories he has stored away, idle in his unconscious and manifesting as dreams until he finds the strength to translate pictures into words, only for Yifan to turn them back into pictures again. Yifan does not even know if he can  _ handle _ hearing the stories behind the scars that he brushes his lips over—does not think that he can cling to what little faith he has left in the world, faith that he has completely and totally surrendered to Zitao, should his angel tell him of all of the horrors that have plucked his wings bare and left him bloodied. 

 

Yifan knows not how Zitao behaved  _ before _ his past became his pain, but Yifan can certainly see the lasting effects that days, weeks, months,  _ years _ (Zitao has been notoriously vague on the topic of the duration of his previous relationship) of ill-treatment has had on Zitao’s behavior. 

 

Zitao is easily startled—even a feather soft touch on the unsuspecting boy’s shoulder is enough to send his wings fluttering, lifting him toward the ceiling in wide-eyed, breathless panic, until he realizes that it’s only Yifan reminding him of his morning lecture the following day. Yifan hates it when Zitao flinches like that—hates to think that at some point, it wasn’t an affectionate touch that graced his angel’s unwary body. 

 

Zitao loves compliments—but is weary of their meaning, weary of what may come after Yifan whispers  _ you know you’re beautiful, right? _ into skin that’s beaded with water from a shower. Yifan hates it when Zitao second-guesses compliments that are so well-deserved, and he tries his best to ignore the way Zitao tenses up just after sweet words leave Yifan’s lips, as if he’s expecting something not-so-kind to happen to him. Yifan hates to think that at some point, a compliment to Zitao was only a preceding to assault. 

 

But Yifan knows that he does not hate Zitao for doing any of these things—for being on edge even when comfortable, for expecting cruelty to come from compassion, for clinging so tightly to defense mechanisms that at once might’ve given him a lesser chance of being forced to watch his feathers fan out amongst the floor. 

 

Yifan hates he who  _ made _ Zitao like this—hates he who  _ destroyed _ his muse, he who left lasting marks and everlasting memories upon Zitao’s sink and mind. Yifan had not been very spiritual before meeting Zitao, and after  _ seeing _ and  _ hearing _ , the atrocities committed against his beautiful angel, Yifan finds himself pressing the conviction that the world truly is  _ Hell _ , closer to his heart. 

 

But Yifan holds his angel—his little slice of silver in a world of coal—even  _ closer _ . Yifan adores Zitao—loves him more than the moon loves the sun.

 

And Yifan  _ spoils _ Zitao rotten. 

 

Yifan does not keep all of the money that his paintings sell for—does not think he’d know what to do with such a grand dollar amount sitting in his bank account. He anonymously donates twenty-five percent of all of his profits to a domestic abuse foundation and abuse shelter downtown, because he doesn’t know how many angels are trying to fly with broken wings—knows that if he hadn’t been working the graveyard shift on a Wednesday, his angel would be in a shelter, or benefiting from programs conducted via domestic abuse foundations.  

 

He’s set aside an account for savings, because he had all at once been a starving artist, and knows that fame and a desire to drag brushes across canvases only lasts so long, and he doesn’t wish to work the Wednesday night shift at a liquor store again.

 

Whatever is left over after he distributes everything evenly amongst his expenses—usually a pretty hefty sum—he pours back into his muse. 

 

It’s not that Yifan is  _ buying _ Zitao’s affections when he allows his love to splurge to his heart’s content—not even in the slightest. It is more that Yifan only wants to give Zitao the  _ world _ , wants to bathe Zitao in the riches and luxuries that society has not. 

 

Furthermore, Yifan has never been particularly gifted with words, and he could not possibly translate his feelings for Zitao into something as eloquent and poetic as the harmony that swims within him, and finds that the word  _ love _ is not nearly as complex or meaningful enough to encompass all he feels. 

 

Picking small gifts for Zitao here and there, and presenting them to his muse without any real reason or occasion is how Yifan says  _ I thought about you today—I love you, I really do _ —without having to voice the words that do so little for a love that consumes  _ so much _ . 

 

Today is only a Tuesday, no special holiday nor call for celebration. Zitao had fled the loft in a hurry just before the clock struck nine that morning, squealing something about  _ fuck, I’m going to be so late for my class oh my god _ , and offering Yifan little more than an  _ I’ll see you, ah, I don’t know! Later, probably!  _ but aside from the chaos of the morning, there is nothing particularly interesting or noteworthy about this Tuesday in November. 

 

With the loft empty of Zitao and his ears ringing with the slamming of the front door, Yifan had spent the morning and a short portion of the afternoon in his studio, befriending canvases and studying the wings of a taxidermied butterfly in a glass frame that he had purchased only for reference. 

 

It was half noon when Yifan’s motivation grew flat from looking at the same surface and swirling the same colors around, and he decided to breathe clean air and go out for a bit. He had also decided to kill two birds with one stone, and run to a department store to see if he could get his hands on something new to wear to his upcoming gallery. 

 

And there’s nothing really more to Yifan’s day than that—he had run out on a whim to the city, and on the same breeze of impulse that lead him out of his safe house, purchased a navy blue button down shirt from a brand with an impressive price tag, in Zitao’s measurements. 

 

Yifan has the woman at the store tuck the shirt away into a box that matches the color of the fabric, and tie it pretty with a white ribbon, because even if there’s nothing special about Tuesdays in November, Yifan will never tire of seeing his angel’s face light up as eager fingers unwrap a gift that’s more fit to be under a Christmas Tree  (speaking of which, Yifan will actually have a reason to  _ buy _ a tree and decorate it this year). 

 

When he returns home, Zitao is nowhere to be found, though Yifan doesn’t think too much of it, for it’s not uncommon for Tao to go out with newly-made friends after his lectures finish. Yifan leaves the box on the coffee table in the living room and returns back to his studio with a cup of tea and a cleared mind. 

 

Tao comes back to the loft around half past four, humming a nameless song and holding a styrofoam takeout container in his hands. He shouts  _ Hi, Yifan! _ enthusiastically from the living room. 

 

He misses the little gift on his way into the kitchen to put away the takeout box, and is too occupied with his happy little song to notice that Yifan, hearing the call of his love, has brushed his hands against a towel and slinked into the kitchen. 

 

Yifan, though ever weary of Zitao’s anxious tendencies, cannot help but slip red-stained fingers around Zitao’s waist from behind, and fit the younger to his body like the final piece of a puzzle. 

 

Naturally, Zitao flies a foot in the air, and if Yifan had been facing him, he would’ve seen the pure terror as it lifted Zitao’s eyebrows up and made his mouth drop in a gasp that Yifan could only hear. But, the fear is not long lasting—for Zitao recognizes the sanctuary he has found in these arms, and apprehension transposes into soft, somewhat relieved laughter. 

 

“God, you scared me!” Zitao cries, mouth wide with a sweet smile, and he closes the refrigerator. Since Yifan is out, Tao figures that he might as well give him the food now. 

 

He turns in Yifan’s embrace, and presses the takeout container against the older man’s chest. Yifan, unsuspecting and gazing at Tao with sleepy eyes and an even lazier smile, doesn’t even blink down at the box as he lifts his hands from Zitao’s hips, to grasp the container. 

 

And  _ wow _ , he curses and nearly drops the box in surprise, because whatever’s inside is  _ hot _ . 

 

Adorably, Zitao giggles at Yifan’s ignorance to his surroundings, and clicks his tongue against the of of his mouth, slinking away from where Yifan has backed him against the fridge. 

 

“Sehun and I went to that weird Thai place downtown after class,” Tao explains, and as he talks, he floats around the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets to pull down two glasses and a pair of chopsticks, which he passes over to his boyfriend.. Yifan hums in gratitude, far more interested in the grace that Zitao possesses as he moves about the kitchen—an ironic grace, considering how Yifan knows how clumsy Zitao can be—and wonders if his colors will ever mold to shape Zitao’s body on canvas. 

 

Zitao begins talking about the waitress at the restaurant, and Yifan finds himself amazed as he tunes into Zitao’s recollection, speaking of the waitress—a  _ complete stranger _ that he had only known for at most ten minutes—as if he’s been friends with the faceless woman for  _ years _ , eyes lighting up as he chatters away about how the woman apparently worked three jobs as a single mother, and with the holiday season coming up, was picking up more hours to buy Christmas presents for her child. 

 

Yifan is awestruck—not because of the single mother and her three jobs, as inspiring as the situation may be—but because Zitao seems  _ completely _ unaware of his incredible ability to make strangers trust him in ways that they might not even trust a life-long companion.  

 

It makes Yifan’s heart swell, makes him look at Zitao with eyes that are reflective of the pure white that seems to engulf Zitao’s aura. 

 

Zitao projects joy and faith that sticks to people’s lives the same way Yifan’s paintings reflect the horrors and misgivings that burn behind people’s eyelids. 

 

Yifan is not spiritual—he does not believe in a God, especially one that abandons his messengers in Hell. He does not harbor much faith in the world, either, especially a world that has been so doubtlessly and regretlessly cruel, but he  _ does _ believe that Zitao is a wandering angel—a gentle soul who breathes light into the lives of others for nothing in return. 

 

A soul who believes in others and only gets bruises and scars and irreversible patterns of behavior in return. 

 

And Yifan’s wandering angel has wandered into the living room, leaving Yifan to his thoughts with a styrofoam container of orange and red Pad Thai noodles, steaming and wafting a scent into a nose that’s been riddled useless through preoccupation. 

 

“ _ Yifan _ ?” 

 

_ There it is _ —that soft, deep voice that can draw Yifan from even the deepest recesses (because even though Yifan has saved Zitao, Zitao has really saved  _ him _ ), and Yifan peers up at the singing of his name. 

 

Zitao has found the little box, and is holding it in both of his hands, standing at the archway that leads from the kitchen into the living room, and staring at Yifan with eyes that cannot be read.

 

Yifan can feel a smile tempting his lips, but plays it off, and begins to toy his food around with his chopsticks. 

 

“ _ Hmm _ ?” 

 

Zitao’s tongue peeks from behind his lips, and he sinks his teeth into the full, pink flesh of his lower lip, eyes trained on the little box. 

 

“Is…” He hesitates, finding that his words are catching on something in his throat. “Is this for  _ me _ ?” 

 

“ _ Maybe _ ,” Yifan teases, but as he watches Zitao, his smile falters. 

 

There’s something  _ terribly _ wrong about the way his angel is looking at him.

 

Yifan has given Zitao spontaneous gifts countless times in the past, but he’s never  _ really _ studied Zitao’s reactions to the same extent that he has watched the fluttering of startled wings and doubt expressed in dark eyes.

 

And it’s with absolute horror that Yifan realizes how  _ grossly _ he’s neglected his muse’s reactions to these impromptu exchanges. 

 

He’s misinterpreted Zitao’s tense shoulders as anticipatory excitement, has never caught the way Zitao’s breath grows tight, as if there’s something heavy sitting upon his chest that is keeping his lungs from fully expanding—he’s never noticed that there is no smile or trickle of laughter in Zitao’s voice as he questions the truth the gift. 

 

Perhaps there’s an understanding in this, however, because Yifan only notices it  _ now _ —only notices the  _ fear _ —because he’s particularly infatuated with Zitao tonight, more so than usual. The tension, hyperventilation, and general anxiety is gone just as quickly as it has appeared, though—replaced with a reserved excitement that’s hindered by lingering suspicions.

 

“ _ Yifan _ ,” Zitao coos, setting the box on the counter and hovering over it with a childlike gleam in his eyes. “What is it? Can I open it?” He asks, but Yifan is still bothered.

 

Yifan lays his chopsticks on the counter, and stands up straight, his brows creasing in the middle. 

 

This  _ still _ isn’t right.

 

“Zitao.” 

 

He’s usually gentle when he speaks Zitao’s name—gentle because he knows that he’s about to tread fragile territory, about to breach the  _ please don’t pry _ policy that they’ve wordlessly adopted in regards to Zitao’s past—but the syllables of Zitao's name leave Yifan's lips with an authoritative edge that he doesn't mean, and he wishes he could go back alter his tone.

 

Zitao stiffens and looks up at him, and God, Yifan thinks—he can see  _ everything _ and nothing through those pretty eyes. 

 

“Yes?” He sings, tone swollen with an innocence so delicate that Yifan cannot tell if it’s a question or a fear that turns the syllable of the word up with a tremble.  

 

Yifan doesn’t know what to say—doesn’t know where he is going with this; doesn’t know if there’s any way he  _ can _ go about this without sending his sweet love into a dark past and a fit of tears, and God, he  _ hates _ it when Zitao cries. Absolutely  _ hates _ it. 

 

Food lays forgotten on the counter, a navy box it's companion to the silence that has bathed a once playful atmosphere in grave tones of grey, and Zitao , feeling his eyes beginning to water, because he doesn't know if Yifan is upset with him—doesn't know what Yifan will do if he  _ is _ upset—begins to shy his face away from his boyfriend, turning his back to the side, and Yifan is mortified—Zitao is retreating into himself.

 

_ No, no, nonono,  _ he thinks.  _ don't hide—I'm not going to hurt you, my love, please don't hide.  _

 

"Are you mad at me?" Zitao's timid voice breaks the silence, and along with it, Yifan's heart. 

 

As angelic and sweet as Zitao may be, he is still human—still has very human fears and makes very human mistakes. Sometimes his fingers will slip while he's washing the dishes, and a bowl will tumble before his eyes and shatter, irreparable across the floor, and he'll whisper  _ I'm sorry, it was an accident _ like a plea in Yifan's arms, leaving the artist to wonder if it's the bowl that's broken, or Zitao. 

 

Old habits are difficult to break, and sometimes Zitao finds himself slipping back into patterns of questioning the motives of he who claims to be in love, wondering if the sweet gifts left by the door and the compliments bestowed upon him in the early hours of the morning are nothing but vapid excuses for a bruise that will come later.

 

Zitao’s fingers curl around the countertop and press against the underside of it until his knuckles are as white as the bone beneath the skin and his joints are aching. 

 

God, he’s  _ so afraid _ of hurting again.

 

He’s reminded of the nights in his past when something lovely would be left behind for him—a beautiful bracelet or a backpack brandishing a lavish logo, and his excitement, which faded so quickly as a hand was raised toward him and left his skin blue and burning with a bruise that was not nearly as fleeting as his moments of happiness.

 

_not again._ _please, not again._

 

Yifan’s face falls at the question, and falls even further at the tension—the  _ fear— _ that has strung Zitao so high, and his brows bow together, a wrinkle separating them. His angel—his precious angel—is falling, and he can’t stand to see it—cannot stand the sight of it, so he lets his feet carry him to Zitao, because he  _ must  _ catch his angel. 

 

“No,” Yifan murmurs, his voice wavering. He’s horrified at the very idea of being angry with Zitao—doesn’t think he could even  _ fathom _ such a thing. 

 

“ _ No _ , Baby,” Exasperation stretches his words thin. “I’m _ not _ . I’m not mad at you,” Yifan stresses his syllables with gentle pleas, and his fingers, perpetually stained red, dance along Zitao’s wrists and nimbly peel back fingers that have been flushed white from holding counter. 

 

Yifan holds both of Zitao’s hands in his own, and like a bowl dropped onto tile, his heart shatters and sprays across the floor in tiny fragments when he feels the tremble beneath his love’s skin. 

 

He lifts those trembling hands to his mouth and presses fleeting kisses against Zitao’s knuckles, the swells and falls of the joints soft against Yifan’s lips. 

 

There’s something incredibly intimate about what Yifan is doing, despite the lack of sexualization in the gesture, and Zitao watches as Yifan grows blurry in his line of sight, and his lower lashes feel heavy with tears, because somehow, Yifan—Yifan who is always so sweet and kind, Yifan, whom Zitao loves more than he knows how to process—being so gentle and caring only makes things worse—only makes the sting of loneliness and fear, and twisted conditioning of a permissive soul  _ that _ much sharper. 

 

Zitao averts his gaze, embarrassed that he's crying—always crying, always afraid. 

 

Yifan's stomach is in knots—he will never be able to tolerate Zitao's pain—and he lowers his love's hands, instead curling his fingers beneath Zitao's jaw and tilt their eyes to meet. 

 

Storms rage in those tender eyes—Yifan recognizes the tear between confusion and fear, that swirls within them, because he's painted it all too many times before, but to no avail, because there's still a darkness in his angel that withers the wings.

 

"I'm not mad, my love," Yifan struggles to maintain his own strength so that he may effectively bring security back to Zitao. He doesn’t know what to say—for this is uncharted territory for the both of them.

 

"Why would I ever be mad at you?" 

 

Zitao is easily moved to tears—always has been, and thinks he always will be. He’s never thought too much of it—the mistiness of his eyes that covers his vision during moments of happiness and sadness, until he can no longer tell  _ what _ he feels when he begins to cry. 

 

Zitao sniffles, and chokes on the tightness in his throat as he tries  _ so hard _ not to cry. The twisting sensation in his throat reminds him of the nights when he would swallow his sobs until he grew ill, lying beside a love that wasn't a love at all, wondering why he wasn't strong enough to  _ leave _ —wondering why he was so  _ stupid _ and easily manipulated.

 

He forces a smile, but it's pathetic and limp and Yifan can see right through it to the pain that Zitao is trying so hard to conceal.

 

And it  _ hurts _ Yifan. 

 

It makes his own breath grow short, makes his chest feel constricted, makes him lace his fingers through Zitao's and squeeze tight.

 

He doesn't  _ want _ Zitao to conceal—doesn't want Zitao to hide  _ any  _ part of himself from Yifan, even if his hellish past makes blood boil, because ultimately, everything about Zitao is  _ something _ to be loved—something to make Yifan's love run  _ deeper _ .

 

"You're so nice to me." Zitao finally whispers, his voice high and airy, and it cracks in the middle of his words as tears come tumbling from where they've budded along his lower lashes.

 

And finally— _ finally _ —Zitao realizes that he's not crying because he's expecting to be hit, burned, or yelled at. He's crying because, for the first time in what feels like years, he's  _ not _ expecting to be hit, burned, or yelled at.

 

He's  _ not _ expecting to be conditioned into submission,  _ not _ expecting to be called names that echo in his mind long after the sting of a blow has faded into something that he can't quite recall, because he knows that Yifan, his guardian angel, will never hurt him.

 

But this is perhaps the  _ worst  _ thing that Zitao has ever said to Yifan, because Yifan understands the implications behind the words. He understands without even  _ hearing  _ a story. He understands that somebody has  _ destroyed _ a trust in people that Zitao used to harbor, has completely  _ destroyed  _ Zitao's ability to understand that he deserves nothing but the kindest treatment, the finest things, and the most  _ suffocating  _ love that the world can offer him. 

 

Yifan drops Zitao's hands, opting instead to wipe the tears from his love's eyes as they fall, with fingers so gentle that any witness would've doubted that the hands upon Zitao's cheeks were the same hands that painted with blood and broken glass, and signed the name  _ kris  _ onto canvas.

 

"Of course," Yifan finds himself saying, over and over and over again.

 

_ Of course, of course. I love you—of course I'd never hurt you. I love you, I love you, Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou _

 

He repeats it until the words are just syllables, until Zitao is smiling through his tears, and the tightness of his angel's throat gives way to sweet, flustered giggles, and he's shying his face away from Yifan for a completely different reason, now. 

 

" _ Yifan, stop."  _ Zitao whines, but unlike usual, when Yifan would immediately cease all motions upon hearing  _ stop _ leave Zitao's lips, Yifan only shakes his head, his fingers no longer wiping Zitao's tears, but instead cupping his cheeks.

 

Yifan's gaze tears into Zitao—fills him with such a warmth that he almost wants to look away, but he doesn't. Zitao watches as Yifan's tongue peeks out and licks along lips that look a bit dry, but kissable nonetheless. 

 

Maybe they're both catching their breath, and that's why they're suddenly silent, save for occasional sniffles and the  _ ins-and-outs  _ of inhales and exhales. 

 

Maybe Zitao is silently chanting  _ thank you. Thank you, my angel. thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou _ within his mind to fill the hushed silence.

 

Maybe Yifan is silently praying  _ my angel, I love you. I love you, I adore you, my angel, my sweet angel.  _

 

Whatever the case may be, they don't need to verbalize to understand. That seems to be an incredible feat of their relationship—another thing that pulls them closer together as clichéd soulmates in a wicked situation. 

 

Finally, Yifan's hands fall from Zitao's cheeks, and he glances toward the forgotten blue box and it's pretty white ribbon. Zitao's gaze follows, and Yifan watches with stars in his eyes as Zitao's teeth sink into his lower lip, and the younger tries to conceal budding excitement.

 

Yifan suddenly hopes that Zitao isn't too excited—for it is only a shirt, after all—but gives his angel a playful nudge toward where the gift is resting on the counter, anyways. 

 

"It  _ is _ for you." Yifan says, and that seems to be all of the encouragement that Zitao needs.

 

Zitao's eyes light up as he carefully pulls the ribbon from the box,  and his expression lifts into one of pure joy at something as simple as a high-quality shirt, and Zitao throws his arms around Yifan's neck and says  _ you spoil me, thank you so much  _ as the two share an embrace brought on by  _ so much more  _ than a shirt in a pretty blue box.

 

And Yifan realizes that there might be something special about Tuesdays in November, after all.

  
  



	3. road flare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and they're all really incredible people

Yifan brings Zitao to the birthday party of Suho, and it's the first time that Zitao will be meeting Yifan's friends. They have all heard of Zitao—all witnessed as Yifan paid more attention to his phone and conversations with Zitao than to them—and the curiosity grows so large that it becomes a running joke that Suho's birthday present should be Zitao. 

 

Yifan has not been hiding or concealing Zitao from his friends, nor is he apprehensive or ashamed of his love. He and Zitao have simply been too wrapped up in figuring out their relationship—Zitao trying to relearn what it truly means to be loved, and Yifan trying to teach Zitao what love is—to think about making themselves known.

 

Yifan should've been far more concerned.

 

Much like Yifan did, his friends fall in love with Zitao almost instantly. With his cute smiles and bashfulness, Zitao is perhaps the sweetest thing that the group has ever seen, and they scold Yifan for keeping the angel from them for so long. But unlike Zitao and Yifan's initial meeting, Zitao is not boasting a bruise to warrant careful behavior. Zitao's injuries are far deeper than the skin, however, and though he smiles warmly and shyly greets everybody with that sweet, soft voice of his, he clings to Yifan, fingers trembling with mild anxiety that does not go unnoticed by Yifan.

 

They're a physical group, Yifan's friends, and it is when they are playfully teasing Yifan and praising Zitao for being the only person who has melted the ice enough to expose Yifan for the gentle giant that he really is, that Chanyeol, a tall, goofy thing who always has good intentions at heart, does something that he shouldn't.

 

Rough affection is how Yifan's friends show appreciation and love for each other, but Yifan should've told them that touching Zitao with a hand that would bruise even the tender flesh of a peach is an absolute  _ no-no _ .

 

Unfortunately, Yifan forgets to advise them to be gentle, even if their intentions are warm.

 

Chanyeol, who had been laughing at a joke long forgotten, draws his hand back, and is about to playfully slap Zitao on the back as a gesture of brotherhood, when everything seems to move in slow motion.

 

Zitao flinches—visibly flinches and on instinct, he draws his arms up toward his head and closes his eyes—and as if that isn't disturbing enough to make Chanyeol snap his arm down with a look of horror, Zitao whimpers  _ I'm sorry, don't hurt me, I'm so sorry. _

 

The entire party comes to a grinding halt as the group looks at each other in confusion, too stunned to act, and Chanyeol only stares in mortification. It is Suho, who, with an underlying tone of authority in his voice that seldom bleeds through his words, calls for Yifan, who had been in the kitchen chatting with Kyungsoo.

 

Yifan is at Zitao's side in an instant.

 

Even though Yifan is always so tender and soft with his love, Zitao still flinches when Yifan wraps his fingers around Zitao's wrists and oh-so-gently pulls Zitao's arms down.

 

Yifan's pupils are blown wide, his brows turned down the same way his lips are—a look of concern that mirrors the face of everybody else in the room, and he faintly registers Chanyeol's whine of  _ oh my God I'm so sorry _ , even though Chanyeol doesn't really understand what it is he's done more than anybody else understands why Zitao is reacting in such a way. 

 

Yifan ignores him, engrossed in calming his angel into tranquility. Zitao had been somewhat anxious and unsettled all evening, and with this added stress, Yifan is incredibly concerned that Zitao might go into panic.

 

"Zitao," Yifan's voice is soft, but commanding enough to make Zitao open his eyes.

 

_ oh no,  _ Yifan thinks.  _ it's okay baby, don't cry. please don't cry, you're okay. _

 

"I'm sorry," Zitao quietly apologizes, though the silence in the room is so deafening that everybody can hear him, and Yifan wonders if everybody can hear his heart breaking as Zitao speaks. 

 

"He scared me, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry." Zitao is whispering more to himself than to anybody else, his lips burning and trembling with every word he speaks. His gaze is downtrodden—he feels guilty and afraid and  _ so embarrassed  _ that he's ruined the party and Yifan's friends probably think poorly of him now. 

 

But they  _ don't _ . They're all concerned—so terribly concerned about this boy whom they hardly know; Suho's usually joyous expression is one of solemn worry, Kyungsoo is watching with wide eyes and bowed brows, with his boyfriend, Jongin, mirroring a similar expression by his side, and Chanyeol—Chanyeol is absolutely mortified, his heart pounding as he holds the hand of an unsettlingly silent Baekhyun for comfort, and continues to whisper  _ I didn't know... I didn't know. _

 

Yifan does not pay them any mind however, because Zitao's breathing is beginning to grow into erratic wheezing, and this has never happened before, so Yifan is fumbling blindly for a way to ease the anxiety. He cups Zitao's cheeks, bringing the boy's eyes to meet his.

 

He can count the stars as they die in Zitao's eyes, can see the rivers as they begin to flood, can watch as an angel begins to curl its wings around itself.

 

Zitao, as far as Yifan knows, has only had one boyfriend. 

 

He has only been in one relationship, only been with one person, and only known a single, abusive hatred masked as love. 

 

And it’s been  _ completely _ detrimental, both to Yifan’s heart and Zitao’s young, tender mind and understanding of people and love. 

 

Zitao is only nineteen—five years younger than Yifan himself—and perhaps forever emotionally devastated thanks to the heavy hand that bruised his heart so early. Yifan wonders sometimes, that if Zitao were older and in the same situation, if the mental repercussions would be just as severe. It is heartbreaking for Yifan to think that Zitao has a twisted schema of love because his mind and heart were manipulated before he knew any better.

 

Zitao does not have any memories of fleeting, sweet high school romances filled with innocence and awkward first dates, first kisses—any number of firsts that should be thought of fondly in the mind. Instead, Zitao can recall a terrible confusion, for his first love had not been kind—would shower Zitao in affection one day, only to turn around and leave bruises and wounds that would last far longer than kind memories of awkward firsts the next. 

 

Zitao can recall wondering if there was something wrong with  _ him _ —can recall being manipulated into thinking that, at the hands of some twisted, angry God, he  _ deserved _ the unholy treatment, deserved to weep into his bedsheets at night and sneak away into the bathroom during the early hours of the morning to hiss at the sting of rubbing alcohol upon scrapes and bruises for which he would later fabricate inconsistent excuses. 

 

Zitao can recall wondering if  _ maybe _ this  _ was _ love, after all. 

 

It  _ wasn’t.  _

 

He knows that now—at least, he thinks he does. Yifan is slowly and patiently teaching him what love really is, though they are not dating—at least, neither of them have been bold enough to label their relationship, which is far too intimate to be considered a  _ normal _ friendship, and Zitao isn’t sure the difference between platonic and romantic. 

 

He isn’t sure of the difference between manipulative and genuine, either, which is why he’s completely seized by fear when Chanyeol lifts his hand toward him, and Zitao finds himself resorting to old mechanisms of defense, even though apologizing had never really done much good for him in the past. 

 

And he keeps murmuring  _ I’m sorry _ , even though he isn't at fault, nor is he consciously registering the words as they leave his lips, even as Yifan reaches out toward him through the haze that has fogged his mind, vision, and thoughts. 

 

“Come back to me, baby,” Yifan murmurs, voice swollen with affection and concern. He doesn’t know what he’s saying—doesn’t really know  _ what _ to say. All Yifan knows is that he wants to bring Zitao to a place of security, a place where he will never be touched by hands with ill intent, and even though he knows that Chanyeol did not have ill intentions to begin with.

 

Yifan wants to hold Zitao close, wants to sweep away any tears and any fears with his fingers—tonight stained blue—but knows that doing so would be too intimate before his friends, so instead Yifan continues to hold Zitao's face, his smallest finger curled just beneath the boy's jaw, and with his other hand, he brushes the backs of his fingers and knuckles along Zitao's hair.

 

"You're okay," Yifan whispers, and with the words, tears spill over Zitao's cheeks.

 

Yifan casts a glance about the room. Everybody looks terribly worried and nearly moved to tears, but Yifan's gaze catches Suho's the longest, and together they share a silent exchange to be deciphered only by them. Suho glances at Zitao, who is wearing a heartbreaking, tearful expression, before nodding at Yifan and wordlessly ushering the startled group somewhere else in the house, giving tortured souls mysterious privacy.

 

In the six months that Yifan has known Zitao, he has not  _ truly _ considered the boy’s mental state—has known that, of course, there were lasting side effects and irreversible damage that had been done as a result of his past, but Yifan has never really thought of what lies beneath the lover’s charm—never thought of how  _ hurt _ Zitao really is. 

 

He makes a mental note to ask Zitao about attending therapy, or a support group, because Yifan doesn’t really know what Zitao  _ needs _ , and doesn’t even think Zitao knows what he needs. 

 

But there is no time to bring Zitao into the hands of somebody more  _ qualified _ to deal with what he is going through now, so Yifan takes it upon himself to try to calm Zitao's breath.

 

He continues stroking Zitao's hair, the strands soft, even as they catch on Yifan's fingernails. 

 

"Zitao, look at me," Yifan requests gently, the hand cupping Zitao's face stroking away tears that have begun to roll down flushed cheeks. 

 

Zitao, though ashamed and afraid, complies to the request, and Yifan almost wishes he hadn't. This is the first time that Yifan has seen Zitao moved to tears as a result of fear, and he would do anything— _ absolutely anything _ —to keep from seeing such a broken and terrified expression seize Zitao’s features again. 

 

"I thought he was going to hit me." Zitao murmurs, his words quiet and remorseful, and Yifan finds himself shaking his head as Zitao says them. 

 

_ nobody’s going to hit you. please don’t be afraid. it’s over—you’re safe now _ . 

 

“Oh  _ baby _ ,” Yifan breathes, his words catching in his throat. He doesn’t know if he should be treating Zitao like this—doesn’t know if he’s crossing into territory that Zitao does not yet want to map, but Yifan doesn’t think he could stop the endearments from leaving his lips if he tried. 

 

He’s confused—just as confused as Zitao—just as  _ afraid _ of Zitao, but more than anything, Yifan hopes that Zitao will understand, however terrible with words as he may be, that he is completely and wholly safe when in Yifan’s arms. 

 

If only Yifan could harbor the courage to actually  _ hold _ him, for he already boasted the desire. Perhaps it would be therapeutic for both of them, but Yifan is too afraid to ask Zitao of what they are, too afraid to label them for the fear of caging his sweet angel. 

 

“Nobody’s going to hurt you, Zitao,” Yifan finally says, though his voice is on the verge of trembling. His hand, at once in Zitao’s hair, falls to Zitao’s cheek, and he’s once again cupping the boy’s face in both hands, his thumbs just beneath the tender prominence of Zitao’s under-eyes. Atop his thumbs, Yifan catches tears before they fall, and he curls the rest of his fingers inward just a bit, his nails gentle brushing Zitao’s cheekbones. 

 

“Do you want to leave?” Yifan asks quietly as Zitao sniffles and chokes on sobs that threaten to turn him blue in the face. “We can go home,” Yifan says, though he doesn’t really need an answer, nor does he need clarification on where Zitao’s home  _ is _ .

 

Zitao is a peculiar individual, tangled up in an even more peculiar web of love. 

 

Yifan and Zitao do not live together—Zitao doesn’t really live  _ anywhere _ —but Zitao stays at Yifan’s loft so often that he has cultivated a small collection of clothes, shoes, and personal items beside Yifan’s in the closet, shower, and even has his preferred snacks stored away in the pantry. 

 

Yifan doesn’t mind. Zitao’s presence makes everything feel warmer, and beyond that, he knows that Zitao’s own apartment, a tiny, one bedroom box that reminds Yifan entirely too much of where he was living only seven months earlier, isn’t in a very refutable part of the city. 

 

They both feel safer in Yifan’s loft, and Yifan does not know it, but Zitao considers home to be wherever safety follows him. 

 

Zitao nods—he wants to leave, for as nice as Yifan’s friends had been, he’s uncomfortable and anxious and really wants to cry, but is too ashamed to do so at a party that he has ruined. 

 

Yifan does not worry about that, though. He doesn’t want Zitao to feel guilty for  _ feeling _ in the first place, and with no further questions asked, he helps the boy up and ushers him toward where they have dropped their coats at the front, and quietly informs the others, who have retreated into the backyard and are sharing whispered speculations about what might be happening, that he and Zitao will be taking their leave. 

 

Chanyeol is the first to rise, insisting that he should apologize to Zitao, but Yifan promises another day, and bids farewell to the rest of the group. They send him off with wishes of wellness for Zitao, and Yifan reciprocates with a  _ happy birthday, Suho, I’ll see you guys later _ . 

  
  


It isn’t until much, much later in the evening, when Yifan and Zitao are sheltered beneath the blankets of Yifan’s bed, and all of Zitao’s woes have been put to sleep, the dark clouds become perfumes of smoke, and Yifan holds Zitao so tightly in an embrace that could only ever be had by a lover, that Yifan’s phone vibrates, once, twice,  _ thrice  _ in succession, and then falls silent. 

 

Yifan is far too preoccupied with Zitao, and the way the younger is clinging to him with fingers flexing against his skin in the throes of a fitful slumber to check the messages. Zitao whines something incoherent, brows creasing in the middle, and presses his fingernails into Yifan’s bicep. 

 

With soft words, Yifan shushes him. “ _ You’re safe _ ,  _ baby _ ,” Yifan murmurs, unsure if Zitao can understand him in his sleep, but the words seem to soothe, and Zitao both relaxes his brow and his hold on Yifan. 

 

It takes another hour for Yifan to fall prey to fatigue, and he falls asleep with the words  _ I love you _ dying on his tongue. 

  
  


The next morning, with Zitao no longer tangled up in his arms, but instead on his chest, limbs lazily strewn about, Yifan checks the forgotten three messages on his cell phone. They’re all from Suho.

 

_ I hope Tao is feeling better.  _

 

_ Make sure he doesn’t feel bad, okay? He didn’t ruin the party.  _

 

_ Oh, and we all really like your boyfriend. :)  _

 

Yifan’s brows lift at the final message, and he reads it several times before he actually comprehends its meaning. He pulls his gaze from the phone, to Zitao, who is sound asleep and looking much more relaxed and content than he had the previous evening. 

 

_ boyfriend _ , Yifan thinks, unashamed of the irresistible smile that tugs his lips upwards.

  
  


_ maybe.  _


	4. title screen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> next time becomes never

**_one month_ ** **.**

 

Yifan wakes to a phone buzzing incessantly, and he doesn't have to look to know that it's his landlord, calling to whine about the rent, which is two weeks overdue and marked on Yifan's door with a red notice of eviction.

 

He silences his phone and goes back to sleep.

 

It's Sunday, and next week he's starting his new work schedule—the graveyard shift.

 

**_one month_ ** **.**

 

Across the city, Zitao does not wake at all, because waking implies the presence of sleep in the first place, and Zitao had spent all night sniffling and pressing his face into dirtied sheets. He inches as close to the edge of the bed as he can without tumbling to the floor, until the body beside him grows irritated, and yanks him near, though Zitao feels no comfort or love in the embrace—only intimidation and possession.

 

Today is Zitao's nineteenth birthday, and though there was neither a cake to be cut, nor candles for him to blow out, he wishes—or rather,  _ hopes _ —that he will one day know a love that is unconditional; a love that will kindle his sweet, romantic heart.

 

**_two months._ **

 

Yifan has painted hundreds of faces, but he cannot master the face of the boy who comes into the liquor store every Wednesday night as Yifan works the graveyard shift. 

 

Yifan twirls a sketching pencil aimlessly between his fingers and stares at a paper that has been mocking him for hours. Try as he might, Yifan cannot properly emulate the contours of the boy's face—the slope of his nose, the brightness in his eyes—and it's frustrating.

 

His fingers press hard into the wood, and the pencil splinters and snaps in his hand.

 

Yifan decides to draw the bruises that peek from beneath the boy's clothing, instead.

 

**_two months._ **

 

Leaving is so much harder than it should be, and Zitao weeps at night because of it. A voice in his mind that is not his own tells him that he's made a mistake—that he should've stayed, because at the very least, he had a steady place to lay his head to rest, even though it wasn't the safest haven. 

 

He isn't old enough to drink, but finds that the liquor store only a few blocks away from the cheap hotel that he's been staying at offers an unlikely companionship. 

 

Maybe Zitao is incredibly lonely, and desperate for any kindness that he may find, but he finds himself looking forward to weekly, late night conversations with the man who's name tag boasts  _ Kris _ more than anything else.

 

**_three months._ **

 

Yifan finds fame by the name of  _ kris  _ amongst his paintings of horror, and increasing price tags and demand for his work means that his shitty one-bedroom apartment with its shitty landlord will house a new starving artist, as Yifan has moved out. He now lives in a loft high above the city, where inspiration is as plentiful as the view of the world below him. 

 

He no longer works the graveyard shift at a liquor store—but he has taken a few bones home with him—particularly the skeletal soul of a  _ Huang Zitao _ —the unofficial muse of his work, and unaware keeper of Yifan's heart.

 

Yifan's loft does not yet feel like a home—but when he finds himself talking on the phone all night to a tortured soul, and the rooms echo with his laughter—Yifan thinks that one day, when two voices fill the silence, it  _ will _ . 

 

**_three months._ **

 

With the encouragement of Wu Yifan (and not  _ kris _ —for Yifan had insisted Zitao only call him by his real name), Zitao has enrolled at a community college. Following high school, a vise-like grip had kept Zitao from attending college—even though he had been accepted into the school of his dreams. That opportunity has long since passed, been given to another deserving person—but Zitao continues his education, albeit a few years late, anyway. 

 

He discovers that Yifan is an artist, and even though Zitao had watched Yifan paint pictures with a pen at the liquor store, he's thrilled and supportive when Yifan officially tells him, though even with begging on Zitao's end, Yifan refuses to show Zitao any of his work. 

 

Zitao doesn't press anymore after that, because no means no, and he doesn't want Yifan to grow cross with him. Old habits die hard, and stubborn expectations never fall weary.

 

**_four months._ **

 

Yifan feels sick to his stomach when Zitao finally tells him that his ex-boyfriend had been abusive. 

 

Yifan had assumed as much—had noticed Zitao's odd behavior and habits which felt too robotic and rehearsed to be dismissed as unique quirks—but to hear Zitao say it makes Yifan feel ill and somewhat angry. Yifan has only known Zitao for four months, but he already knows that Zitao is perhaps the kindest, sweetest person that the Earth has ever been blessed by, and Yifan has even taken to calling him an  _ angel  _ in the refuge of his own mind, and to think that somebody would deliberately hurt his angel makes Yifan's blood boil.

 

It is that same night, shortly after Zitao tearfully confesses the brute of his past, when the pair is curled up on Yifan's couch in the living room, watching a movie beneath a blanket, that Yifan pauses the film and gingerly takes Zitao's hands, assuring the boy,  _ trust me,  _ and leads him to a room in the loft that has been wordlessly marked as prohibited.

 

Zitao falls to his knees and weeps upon seeing the canvases, and with a breaking heart, Yifan catches him and promises that everything is going to be alright.

 

**_four months._ **

 

Once, when Zitao was much younger and living in China, his fourth grade teacher provided to the class a list of values, such as love, family, safety, and so on, and asked the students to number each concept in order of which one they thought was the most important. Zitao had marked love first, family second, and safety—which was something that, as a nine year old, he had always had and always taken for granted—as tenth on a list of fifteen. 

 

Ten years later, in Zitao's psychology class, the professor asks the students to do an activity that is almost identical to the one Zitao did when he was nine, even though Zitao does not remember a lot from fourth grade, let alone doing this activity or the order in which he had placed his values.

 

This time around, Zitao places safety first and love second, because now he knows that one cannot exist without the other, and where he feels safe, he feels loved. It is as he is considering the weight of the word  _ safe  _ upon his tongue, that Zitao realizes how  _ safe  _ he feels with Yifan.

 

**_five months._ **

 

Yifan falls in love with too-big smiles and high-pitched laughter, and it only takes Suho, one of Yifan's closest friends, two weeks to notice the change in Yifan's demeanor. 

 

It is during a shared lunch that Suho realizes that Yifan is paying more attention to his phone than to him, and teases that Yifan has finally gotten a boyfriend after a two-year dry spell, and Yifan's silence is telling. 

 

Suho laughs and demands to know the whole story, and with flushed cheeks and grumbling, Yifan tells Suho that Zitao is not yet his boyfriend—they only go out together on occasion, sometimes Yifan will press soft kisses to Zitao's forehead during nights both of doubt and comfort, and sometimes (though more often than not), when Zitao is too weary and they have waited too long in the evenings, Yifan makes room in his bed, and they end up tangled up in one another by time the sun rises and bursts their little bubble of togetherness.

 

Through glittering eyes and amused laughter, Suho gently reminds Yifan that  _ that _ is  _ exactly  _ what it is like to have a boyfriend. 

 

**_five months_ **

 

Zitao cries at Yifan's first gallery, both out of pride and the pain of released memories being cut away from his skin. 

 

Yifan—known to the patrons of the gallery as the difficult-to-approach  _ kris _ —wipes away Zitao's tears with affection budding from his fingertips, and a good natured murmur of  _ you're ugly when you cry, stop that _ , that makes Zitao smile. Of course, nobody sees the tender exchange, but that doesn't matter, because they do not exist together for publicity.

 

Zitao grows uneasy later in the evening, when he overhears a woman speculating about the source of the blood that is so quickly drying upon  _ kris _ paintings—and it doesn't take a genius to realize that people believe that  _ kris  _ is abusing Zitao. 

 

Yifan is by Zitao's side in an instant, reassuring him that everything is okay, and he would never dare lay a finger on him. 

 

**_six months_ **

 

The first time Yifan attends one of his galleries without Zitao, words run particularly rampant, and an already hostile atmosphere that Yifan cares very little for becomes stifling. The rich all stand before his paintings and pretend to look in awe at the scenes, abstract and telling, that unfold upon the canvases before them, but Yifan knows they’re really catching glances of  _ himself _ when they believe he is not looking. They pretend, as breath fogs up half-full wine glasses that are pressed close against lips, that they are praising the work before them, and the genius that has produced them. 

 

Yifan knows they’re really murmuring and spreading rumors about the curious red stains as they fade to black, wondering where Zitao, the Angel is—wondering if  _ kris _ has finally bled the sweet soul into black. If anybody would bother to  _ ask _ , however, Yifan would tell them that Zitao has not been  _ murdered _ , nor has he been beaten so badly by the brilliant  _ kris _ that he cannot walk. Zitao is at home, beneath several blankets, nursing a fever that had winded him earlier in the week, and Yifan plans on returning home before the turn of the hour to care for his love. 

 

But, of course, nobody dares to approach he who is unapproachable— _ kris _ .

 

Yifan retreats to the balcony of the ballroom for a cigarette, and is so surprised when Suho pops up behind him, that he drops the stick over the edge of the railing, where it plummets several storeys into the city below. 

 

“ _ I thought you stopped _ ,” Suho says, though there is hardly any judgement in the words. 

 

Yifan sighs, his fingers fitting through his hair, and murmurs, “ _ I don’t do it around Tao.”  _

 

Zitao does not openly express his distaste of Yifan’s nasty little habit of smoking—has never so much as breathed a fowl expression upon seeing a cigarette—but Yifan has traced the tiny, perfect circle of a scar on Zitao’s hip enough times to know that it is a cigarette burn. Yifan had been so disgusted—so mortified at the thought of somebody using a  _ human being _ to stub out a cigarette, let alone his beautiful angel—that he had vowed to quit. 

 

Maybe one day, he will. 

 

**_six months_ **

 

Zitao finishes his first semester of community college, and with the joy and pride of accomplishment, because he’s done exceptionally well on his final exams, Yifan treats him to a lively night on the town. 

 

Winter has just begun to settle into the city, and though the evenings are cold and the weather forces them to bundle up beneath sweaters, coats, and gloves, when they are clinging to each other at a food cart, waiting for the sweet old woman to finish spooning their order into a styrofoam container, Yifan and Zitao feel incredibly warm. 

 

And, because Zitao enjoys being babied, and Yifan is a hopeless romantic at heart, Yifan takes to feeding Zitao, playfully missing his mouth on occasion and smearing sauce across the younger boy’s face. 

 

Yifan is laughing so hard at the boy’s kind-hearted grumbles, that he almost misses when Zitao, as he is wiping his face with a napkin, mutters  _ you’re lucky I love you _ . 

 

And without so much as thinking, Yifan says  _ yeah, well I love you too _ . 

 

**_seven months_ **

 

Yifan is envious of the way his bedsheets twist and flutter around Zitao's body, clinging to his love's skin in ways that Yifan cannot. The cotton sheets catch upon smooth panes of muscle, the white of the fabric contrasting so starkly against the beautiful olive tones of Zitao's skin in ways that Yifan can only dream about one day replicating on canvas.

 

The sheets drape along narrow hips and conceal the only marks that Yifan dares to leave upon Zitao's skin, born from love and adoration, and hide the phantom, wandering hands of an artist as he draws against his muse's body. 

 

In the throes of passion, Zitao writhing and whining against him, Yifan presses his lips to Zitao’s and murmurs,  _ let me draw you like this _ , pleads against his angel’s moans of  _ more, please more, yifan _ , until, with red cheeks and a smile that Yifan knew he would  _ never _ be able to replicate, Zitao agrees.

 

**_seven months_ **

 

Zitao has looked in the mirror for too long, again. 

 

He has let his eyes fall across the scars that cripple his wings, until he finds that he is no longer looking at stains upon his flesh in Yifan’s home, but instead running through the halls of a house that is too big and empty, with a heart that is pounding so hard that it leaves him gasping for breath; he is begging for  _ no more _ , begging for  _ not again _ —but he may as well be crying out for the deaf. 

 

Memories and awareness begin to blur together, until Zitao finds that he’s no longer weeping for mercy and hiding from how  _ ugly _ he feels, but rather sobbing for  _ Yifan _ . 

 

And it is Yifan who, with paint peeling from his fingernails and a smudge of charcoal on his cheek, turns Zitao away from the mirror and leads him into a sanctuary that smells strongly of iron. 

 

He points to a few of the canvases in the room, and Zitao is startled by the abstract, simplistic beauty that they all seem to harbor. 

 

“ _ Do you think they’re pretty?” _ Yifan whispers in reference to the canvases, against the shell of Zitao’s ear, and tearfully Zitao nods, but still turns away, burying himself further into Yifan’s embrace. 

 

_ “Good _ ,” Yifan sighs, carding his fingers through Zitao’s hair. “ _ Because they’re all you _ .”  

 

**_eight months_ **

 

Zitao insists on a white Christmas tree, and Yifan can’t bring himself to argue. As it turns out, Zitao loves the holidays, and because he is with Zitao, Yifan finds that he quite likes the holidays too, now. 

 

They spend an entire weekend decorating Yifan’s loft with garland, stockings—one for each of their friends—and anything else that they’ve picked up at the seasonal store. 

 

After their hard work is done, they find themselves wrapped up in each other on the couch, though the excitement of the weekend has tired Zitao out, and it is in the middle of a conversation, that Yifan realizes that he has been talking to himself for the last ten minutes. 

 

So he hushes, not wanting to disturb Zitao, who always looks so sweet and peaceful in his sleep, and instead admires what they’ve done to the loft. 

 

It feels like home. 

 

**_nine months_ **

 

When the New Year comes, they spend it in the company of Yifan’s group of friends that has lovingly adopted Zitao, and a few of Zitao’s friends from school that have assimilated into the group. The evening is spent with glasses ringing, laughter echoing, and music vibrating throughout the floor of Yifan’s loft, and Yifan jokes that the neighbors beneath him are most certainly going to request an eviction to be posted on his door now. 

 

An hour after midnight, the party still in full gear, Yifan and Zitao shrug on their coats and retreat to the balcony that hangs off of the room that has wordlessly become  _ their _ bedroom, and the cold Winter air steals the breath from their lungs. 

 

Yifan is completely surprised when Zitao hugs him tighter than usual, and murmurs  _ thank you _ . 

 

He wants to ask  _ for what? _ but he really,  _ really _ doesn’t need to. 

 

**_ten months_ **

 

Zitao loses his wallet. 

 

But he actually forgets it at Yifan’s place, again. 

 

When he gets it back, he’s surprised when he’s in the middle of class, and a small, brass key falls out from one of the credit card slots. 

 

**_eleven months_ **

 

Yifan finally gets around to drawing Zitao, just as he begged several months earlier.

 

From a chair not too far from the bed, it is with both a hand both of practice and virgin exploration that Yifan drags a pencil across a pad of paper and begins to sketch the beauty that lays before him, immortalizing a scene that will only be seen by his eyes.

 

He has drawn live models before, multiple times in classes during his years as an illustration student with no clear future in sight, but never has he drawn  _ anybody _ like this—never felt so inclined to showcase a vulnerability that is so drastically different from the vulnerability that he familiarizes himself with in his paintings. Only with Zitao has he ever had an angel spread their wings wide across his sheets, scars, fears, loves, and  _ beauty _ all etched between feathers for Yifan to observe.

 

And there’s something so incredibly  _ intimate  _ about it all—something intimate to Yifan, being so in love with a person that his hands are working without thought to transcribe a vision onto paper. 

 

_ “I feel like we’ve done this before _ ,” Zitao says, suddenly, but he’s careful to keep his body still, so as not to disturb his position. Yifan lifts a brow and replies  _ I’ve never drawn you like this _ —because he hasn’t. He’s run his fingers across Zitao’s nude body countless times, admired the contours and curves of muscle with his hands, but this is the first time that he’s actually  _ exploring _ his love like this. 

 

Zitao laughs and shakes his head, his fingers curling into the sheets.  _ "Aren't soulmates people who have lived on the planet a bunch of times, but always find each other? Maybe we’ve done this before."  _

 

_ "You think I'm your soulmate?" _ Yifan interrupts Zitao's thought process, but he's half-joking as he says the words.

 

Yes, Yifan loves Zitao more than he's loved anybody before, and some uncultured and ignorant eyes might dare to call Yifan an obsessive, but Yifan would never put Zitao in a position to confess or feel pressured to say the tender L word, and they are not unhealthily dependent on each other.

 

_ "Yes." _

 

**_twelve months_ **

 

Both Yifan and Zitao’s phones are buzzing incessantly against the nightstand, and though they’re a bit too preoccupied with each other to check, they know that it’s the group chat, alive and excited with birthday wishes and last-minute preparations for a party to be held later in the evening.

 

Today is Zitao’s twentieth birthday, and as he arches into a fleeting touch and curls his fingers into fitted sheets that don’t really  _ fit _ , crying out the name  _ Yifan _ , he wonders in the back of his mind, just  _ what _ he is going to wish for when he blows out the candles. 

 

He has found a love that is unconditional; a love that kindles his sweet, romantic heart and taught him what comfort and love in an embrace feels like, and there is nothing more that Zitao could possibly want. 

 

Except for, perhaps a  _ million _ more lifetimes with Yifan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are some weird things going on with my italics and the spacing of my punctuation. still an a03 noob but i'll work to fix them. thank you so much :)


	5. salt and pine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's bitter like seawater

Yifan is not perfect, though he has never promised to be. His entire life has been built upon his imperfections and his mistakes, a grand amount of his youth spent brooding over timeworn sketchbooks and nubs of charcoal smeared upon his fingers as he learned to embrace the God-given-curse of his artistic talent and grew into his mistakes. 

 

Attending an expensive, ‘name brand’ university, only to major in Illustrations instead of Computer Science as his parents had so desired, was one of Yifan’s mistakes, and his abrupt change in majors left him to pay for everything on his own—left him in a debt that he’s only fairly recently cleared. Choosing a liquor store as a place of employment, and spending most of his meager paycheck on materials to kindle a dying flame of inspiration instead of paying his rent on time, was another one of Yifan’s mistakes. 

 

Deciding to take the graveyard shift instead of quitting all together and looking for a job at a high school or middle school teaching uninterested students that there are no boundaries nor limitations to what can be put on or thrust out of a canvas, was another mistake. 

 

But from many mistakes are born miracles.  

 

His college degree may mean very little to him now—very few people care that he went to Seoul University and harbors an impressive Bachelors in Fine Arts that hangs in a glass-panelled frame on the wall of his studio, brown rust smeared across the lower left corner—but attending university, and the illustrations program no less, harvested an already rich talent, taught Yifan to work with what he has been blessed with, to refine until there is perfection in his imperfect little world. 

 

Working at a liquor store, taking an eleven PM to seven AM shift on a Wednesday night, had bestowed upon him such a beautiful gift, a blessed Angel, though a bit broken, but all the more perfect in Yifan’s eyes. 

 

All of Yifan’s mistakes were only contractions, preparing him for the rebirth of a life with Zitao, and Yifan, though not perfect, thinks that his life might just be shaping up to contentment. Perfect contentment. 

 

But, Yifan is not perfect. 

 

Not at all. 

 

And Yifan has made a  _ grand _ mistake, and he’s too afraid to consider that this mistake might not have any miracles to be reap. 

  
  
  


Zitao has been making incredible progress. 

 

Progress in what, neither of them really know anymore than they know just how much more  _ progress _ is ahead of them before their journey is complete. 

 

But Zitao has been progressing on uncharted sands, anyway. He’s assimilated beautifully into Yifan’s circle of friends, no longer does he cling to Yifan’s side and bite his tongue—instead he lingers, but brightens the room with sweet smiles and reminds everybody to take joy in the little things, and Yifan couldn’t be more proud. 

 

He is no longer so bashful and quiet around Yifan, either. Zitao voices his thoughts and opinions openly and with eager reprieve from Yifan. He is no longer afraid to ask questions, to ask for things, and he is beginning to acknowledge his needs and desires. 

 

Such incredible progress from such an  _ incredible _ person, and Yifan has  _ fucked it all up _ in only a matter of minutes. 

 

If only to provide background, it had been a particularly rough morning, Yifan and Zitao being roused awake by the insistent vibrating of Yifan’s phone against the dark, wooden floors of their bedroom, and had it not been for Zitao squeezing his eyes shut, pulling the blanket over his head, and whining  _ Jesus, Yifan turn it off! _ , Yifan would’ve let the damn thing run until the battery died. 

 

Being woken so unconventionally early, when they were both more accustomed to mornings that began at ten, had lit a volatile fuse, and Yifan had answered his phone with enough malice in his voice to send even the bravest souls shrinking back away into solace. 

 

The voice on the other line had been Yifan’s representative, and to be courteous, Yifan had trudged to the living room to take the phone call, leaving Zitao to his rest. 

 

and what a horrid phone call had it been. 

 

_ “Lim pulled out.”  _

 

_ Yifan, too tired and irritated to comprehend what this meant, pinched his brow with his free hand, and growled, soft in volume but commanding in tone, “What the fuck are you talking about?”  _

 

_ His representative sounded absolutely beside himself, voice rising in volume with each word he spoke. “Lim, your  _ biggest fucking sponsor _ just pulled out of Saturday’s gallery.”  _

 

_ Yifan, who had begun to pace around the living room in circles, if only to give his listless body something to do, stilled, abruptly.  _

 

_ Lim pulled out.  _

 

_ “Why?” Yifan’s teeth were clenched so tightly that it’s a wonder the word was coherent to his representative—but the question got through loud and clear.  _

 

_ He expected the answer he received, though that didn’t make it any easier to hear.  _

 

_ “Abuse rumors, Kris. Something about domestic violence and your boyfriend,” His representative spoke quickly and offhandedly, as if it wasn’t as big of a deal as it really  _ was _ , and the flippancy of it all only served to heighten the flame that threatened to bring Yifan’s blood to a boil.  _

 

_ “I’m  _ **_not_ ** _ abusing my boyfriend. Fuck, if people just fucking  _ **_asked_ ** _ —”  _

 

_ “I understand this is upsetting, but we’re ten thousand dollars short and this gallery is in four days, and it’s not going to fucking happen unless you pull the money out of your ass.”  _

 

_ Yifan wondered if there would be anything left of his teeth, for he was beginning to grind them into nubs.  _

 

The  _ problem _ is that nobody  _ asks _ —nobody dares to  _ ask _ for the truth, but Yifan can feel hypocrisy and doubt tear him in two. He knows that seventy-five percent of the money attached to his paintings comes from the shock value of the stories behind them, from the speculation that sends the rich and the journalists alike into a frenzy of rumored words and pencils tight between fingers. He couldn’t fix it even if he  _ tried _ , even if he painted the truth in a more blatantly obvious manner, because it’s only about the  _ money,  _ the money that’s such a  _ huge problem _ . _.  _

 

The money that will  _ never _ exist in the  _ physical _ .

 

The money isn’t a problem—ten thousand is only a drop in the bucket of a man who’s well runs millions deep—ten thousand is only an arbitrary dollar figure that will never exist in the  _ physical _ , only the digital. 

 

But Yifan’s temper exists in the physical, and after the phone call, he had been so  _ angry _ —so  _ fucking _ angry, that he could hardly look at Zitao, could hardly kiss him good morning as the sun rose higher in the sky, and he sure as Hell couldn’t go back to sleep. 

 

So Yifan had locked himself away in his studio, crooked fingers bent with brushes in between, the scent of iron and oils heavy in the air— _ suffocating _ . 

 

And Zitao— _ oh _ , sweet, precious, alway sincere Zitao, had only been trying to help ease the strain that held Yifan’s brow tight and and crippled his wrists as fingers curled around paintbrushes.

 

Always trying to help—always so  _ perfect _ . 

 

Zitao is quiet by nature, his voice soft and sympathetic, movements graceful and soundless—so much so that Yifan had not heard even the flutter of Zitao’s wings as he peeked into Yifan’s studio at noon, ignoring the smell of iron and oils in the air.

 

Yifan had not heard Zitao, but they both heard the sound of Yifan’s startled gasp, because Zitao had been so  _ silent _ in his entrance that he had sent the artist’s heart bursting, both heard the shattering of a glass jar filled with murky water against the wood floors, had both heard the terrible sound of water bouncing against tightly stretched canvas, and witnessed an even more horrifying sight as colors that had not yet dried began to run like rivers down the surface of canvas, an image ruined—a vision gone. 

 

Yifan had not heard Zitao, but Zitao had most  _ definitely _ heard Yifan. 

 

Yifan, as he  _ snapped _ , stretched too thin by a terrible day. Yifan, as he turned to Zitao with wide eyes and trembling fingers, lips burning as he  _ yelled _ — _ screamed and projected— _ his hatred for all of his own imperfections, his fury with a world obsessed with money and untouched by story, onto Zitao. 

 

He wasn’t even  _ mad _ at Zitao—could never be mad at his angel—even if a few canvases that had already been muddled were stirred up a bit more. 

 

Yifan had been upset, and Zitao just so happened to be the next unfortunate soul to be caught in the crossfire of Yifan’s temper and arguments with himself. 

 

Unfortunately, Zitao didn’t know any better—Zitao didn’t know  _ anything _ , only knew that the person that had promised safety and love had, in a matter of seconds, made him feel  _ so afraid _ , that with wide, teary eyes and an almost instantaneous change in disposition, Zitao whimpered an  _ I’m so sorry _ that broke Yifan’s heart more than it mended the situation. 

 

Yifan has spent  _ so many _ evenings wrapped up in Zitao, so many seconds, minutes, hours, with the younger’s skin on his fingers and taste upon his tongue, but never before has Yifan wanted  _ so badly _ to pull Zitao into an embrace, never before has Yifan wanted to press soft, lingering kisses to Zitao’s skin—he wants so badly to hold Zitao that his fingers are  _ shaking _ . 

 

Actually, Yifan’s entire body is trembling, and he stares at Zitao, horrified by his own actions, horrified that he’s paralyzed such a sweet soul with fear, horrified that he’s slipped up like this—that he’s  _ yelled _ at his angel. 

 

But Yifan is not perfect, and he has never promised to be. 

 

Out of both a curiosity and a desire to be the absolute  _ best, _ most  _ perfect _ confidante that he can be to Zitao, Yifan has read several articles, blog posts, even a  _ book _ written by those who have found love in the startled hearts of fallen angels. Yifan has read about the love, the intimacy, and the inevitable  _ screw ups _ of these delicate relationships, because people are not perfect, and patience wears thin, even in the best of the worst. 

 

But Yifan thought that he had learned from what he read—thought that by reading about times when voices were raised and words with fairly little meaning in hindsight had been exchanged, he was saving both he and Zitao the trouble of having to experience such trying moments. 

 

Never did he think that he would be identifying with the faceless people whom he had taken to for guidance, never did he think that  _ he _ would be the one to bring Zitao to tears like this. 

 

“ _ Zitao _ ,” Yifan starts, but his mouth is dry, only to go drier as he watches Zitao flinch away from the sound of his voice. 

 

_ oh no. oh no oh god what have i done baby what have i  _ **_done_ ** _.  _

 

It’s almost enough to bring Yifan to tears, but they can’t both cry—one of them has to stay afloat. 

 

Words catch in Yifan’s throat, and even if they do manage to slip past the strain, they only serve to frighten, so Yifan tries the physical—but, even if he has never before done anything to warrant an unfavorable reaction from Zitao, never before  _ hurt _ Zitao, Yifan finds that his love shys away from Yifan’s touch as though Yifan has only  _ ever _ hurt him. 

 

“Please  _ don’t _ .” Zitao's voice is a whisper, and Yifan stills, his heart pounding in his chest, and fuck, he's shaking so badly—perhaps it's the adrenaline running through his veins, born from a fear that is undefined. 

 

The silence that falls between them is  _ painful _ , and Yifan thinks he’s going to fall over with uncontrollably his muscles are trembling, thinks his heart is going to burst with how quickly it’s beating. 

 

Fuck, is  _ this _ what people think they are? 

 

Trembling voices and heavy hearts, meaningless, angry words, and fear? So much  _ fear _ . 

 

Yifan isn’t like this—Yifan isn’t angry and ill-tempered. He isn’t  _ abusive. _ He’s simply had a bad day—had an imperfect morning. 

 

This isn’t  _ them _ . This isn’t who they are. 

 

This isn’t who Yifan is. 

 

“I didn’t mean it—Tao, I swear.” Yifan’s voice sounds foreign to his own ears, and his words float from his tongue as if he hasn’t spoken them at all. Everything feels so surreal—like Yifan is watching in slow-motion as feathers slip between his fingers and flutter to the floor. 

 

Surreal cannot even begin to bring merit to the way Zitao feels. 

 

He wants to run—run like he always has, run the way his throbbing heart is telling him to. 

 

But he also knows that he  _ shouldn’t _ be panicking like this. 

 

He shouldn’t be holding himself so tightly, shouldn’t be so  _ afraid _ , because this is  _ Yifan _ . Yifan, who pays for his college courses. Yifan, who runs his fingers through Zitao’s hair when they watch movies on the couch together. Yifan, who attends support group meetings with him. Yifan, who promised that he would  _ never _ ,  _ ever _ lay an unkind finger to Zitao’s skin. 

 

But the  _ yelling _ —oh, to awaken such a sour part of Zitao’s past. 

 

The  _ yelling _ —the painful words. That’s how it started last time. Yelling, blazing eyes, a few terrifying moments, and then  _ nothing _ . Nothing but apologies and sweet murmurs of  _ I didn’t mean it _ . 

 

Zitao isn’t stupid. He knows that it only gets worse from here.  

 

But Zitao also knows that Yifan isn’t  _ him _ —Yifan isn’t he who manipulated Zitao’s young heart and crafted a wall so high around a well of water so sweet. 

 

“You…” Zitao’s breath catches on what he thinks should be a sob, but chokes in his throat as a hiccup of breath instead, and even though it’s painful to swallow, Zitao is glad that a rush of tears hasn’t riddled him completely hopeless, so he tries again. 

 

Bold with his words, bashful with his gaze, Zitao still holds himself and looks anywhere but at Yifan, and  _ tries again _ . 

 

“You  _ can’t _ yell at me like that.” 

 

To find such bravery in such a worn soul is jarring, and had the circumstances been  _ any _ different at all, Yifan would’ve found his heart surging with pride, because Zitao is  _ defending _ himself. 

 

Instead, Yifan’s heart is crippled by shame, because Zitao is defending himself from  _ Yifan _ . 

 

It is all Yifan can do to lift shaking fingers and take Zitao so gently into his arms, and while Zitao allows Yifan to grasp along his upper arms, that contact is all Yifan gets, for Zitao grows too fearful when Yifan tries to get any closer than arm’s length away. 

 

“I  _ know _ ,” Yifan is speaking so softly, so  _ strained _ , so  _ genuinely _ , but he feels oddly detached, as though he’s watching this entire scene unfold from the position of a bystander. 

 

Bitterly, he wonders if this feeling of detachment is what the patrons of his galleries feel when they watch the two from afar. 

 

“I  _ know _ , baby, and I’m  _ so sorry _ . I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to.” 

 

Zitao’s eyes are wet with tears now, and they match Yifan’s with their glaze. 

 

They’re both crying. 

 

And Zitao is the brave one this time around—Zitao is the one swallowing his own fears to pull Yifan away from his. Zitao, who places the utmost trust in Yifan, and in the belief that Yifan  _ really _ didn’t mean it, and won’t hurt him, and brings his eyes to meet those of his teary artist’s. 

 

Zitao has never see Yifan cry. 

 

Granted, Yifan is not yet  _ crying _ , but Zitao knows from personal recollection what tears budding along the lower-lash line look like. And now, Zitao knows from personal recollection just how  _ harrowing  _ it is to see one’s love in tears, or so dreadfully close—knows the desire to protect and help and  _ heal _ . 

 

“I don’t deserve it.” Zitao says quietly, speaking more to himself than he is to Yifan, though his words hit Yifan deeply, and again, Yifan finds himself thinking that if the circumstances were  _ any _ different, his feelings would thrive. 

 

“No, you don’t.” Yifan agrees, and God, he’s clinging to Zitao now, because he’s so afraid that Zitao—his love, his muse, his  _ angel _ —is going to leave, and God, he doesn’t want Zitao to leave. “You don’t, I’m sorry, Zitao. I didn’t mean it.” 

 

“It’s okay, Yifan.” Zitao whispers, only partially worried that the words will be swallowed against Yifan’s skin, but Yifan only gives Zitao a tight squeeze, as if verifying that his angel has not yet flow away. His fingers rub blurred patterns against Zitao’s back, mirroring his tear-blurred vision. 

Yifan pulls Zitao closer, until his arms encircle his love completely, and he’s forgotten what had upset him in the first place. “I didn’t mean it, baby. I didn’t mean it.” Yifan keeps repeating, because he knows that more important than  _ I’m sorry _ and  _ I won’t do it again _ is the promise that it meant  _ nothing _ —the promise that this incident is  _ nothing.  _

 

This is not a  _ stepping stone _ , a descent into something cruel, a promise of rumors to come true later. This—what Yifan has done—means  _ nothing _ . 

 

And as difficult as that may be for Zitao to swallow, he understands, and nods, pressing his face to Yifan’s neck. He can feel the irregularities in Yifan’s breathing this way, but that doesn’t matter to Zitao—only reminds Zitao that Yifan is actually  _ human _ , with his own flaws and downfalls, but that doesn’t make him any less  _ perfect.  _

 

Yifan is not perfect, and he has never promised to be, but Zitao finds him unflawed, anyway. 

 

Because that’s what love is, isn’t it?


End file.
